Through distant time and space
the child comes along just to see
how things turned out—
expectations shed like clothes,
courses changed as we ricochet,
learn the hard way.
I will never have those eyes again,
never yearn to star in dreams
that now surround me—
come alive with color and texture
as momentum slows, ready now
to make the most of it.
Fences down, cattle wild,
my father warned, ‘Don’t
let the ranch run you—’
when it was like slaying
a dragon or stealing a ride
to dream of such control.
Armloads of cucumbers
like firewood to the kitchen
for pickling after boxes
of vegetables to give away
each morning, we could say
the same about your garden—
knowing that acreage
has nothing to do
with the life we choose.
The difference between 105 and 110 degrees
is fifteen hundred gallons more each day
for a hundred head of heifers
five degrees
thirty minutes
one pint of gasoline
to keep them happy
and alive, without worry
about water—
about engine, pump or pipeline.
Grazing to and from the shade,
our twilit landscape in motion,
we know this slow dance
of summer, this plodding grace
of man and beast.
Gas for water,
morning altar
in the summer.
Outside in the shade, the two-speed fan
is like an oscillating blow torch
offering velocity to 110 degrees—
yellow pad and pencil, my red wine
warm as a tepid cup of tea,
I listen to Outlaw on Sirius wondering
if any of us can make a difference
to how the world shakes-out after
another summer of half-baked promises,
malevolent campaigns cooking-up
new recipes to wear upon
the ageless face of God.
Dawn cool through the screen door,
gold print upon my coffee cup:
MT. SENTINEL RANCH, 1898 – 1998
for Francis Gardner
1942 -2016
The size and behavior of a grackle working the shore of a stock water pond that is drying up.
The Live Oak bundles roots
in cracks of rock where water leaks
from scoops of granite—high
Sierra lakes filled by snowmelt
thirty crooked miles or more,
and six thousand feet of gravity, away
to stay alive. A mass of tendrils
chasing a tiny stream into pipe
before the trough to drink deeply,
to swell into a rope of roots
to plug and claim the most
precious here to life until it
disappears. Everyone knows
this place beneath a string
of sycamores and cottonwoods
growing sideways for the light
in the canyon’s deep and narrow cut—
where water spills into troughs,
pools overflowing one into another
where resident thistles and weeds
compete, crawl with black ants
to feed the birds and rodents
who in turn inflate snakes
that enjoy the cool and damp.
Enough to share with cows,
I come to clean the pipes
that make the spring box work.
drycrikjournal 